


Where words end

by SoonerOrLater



Series: A little Night Music [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoonerOrLater/pseuds/SoonerOrLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 of 'A little Night music' where Sherlock is absent in body but present in soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where words end

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a post-'The Final Problem' in the 'BBC Sherlock Universe but written before the Reichenbach episode. So the events and character responses are based on Series 1 conjecture and my headcanon.

Lestrade brought him home after...after what John couldn’t even bring himself to think it.  
He was basically fine, physically. Paramedic had patched up some minor injuries at the scene; he remembered insisting he was a doctor and knew he didn’t need hospital treatment and a heated argument, his own voice raising until Lestrade stepped in.  
He heard Lestrade’s hushed tones bellow now as he plodded up the stairs, legs like lead. He heard Mrs Hudson gasp and knew Lestrade had told her what happened. John cursed himself again, what he had allowed to happen, by agreeing-by not resisting more. Made into a decoy, a distraction while unspeakable events happened just a short distance away. Mrs Hudson began to sob, and John steeled his heart against the sound. He wasn’t ready, he knew once it came that grief would be overwhelming and he couldn’t, wouldn’t allow it-not yet. He didn’t have the strength.   
John stopped at the door and took a deep breath, steeling himself once again. The living room was of course, just was they’d left it, what seemed like a lifetime ago but was in reality mere hours. John had been in the army and a doctor long enough to know that minutes changed a life but he’d never had firsthand experience, what was set in stone, what was is now gone and only a matter of hours in between.   
Cold mugs of tea still littered the coffee table, the dregs of John’s cold tea and his cold coffee. His thought John, willing the name out of his head. The debris of work notes scattered across tables chairs and floors indicative of the manic past few days. Last few days thought John and quickly chased the thought away. His laptop still open on the table swirling a starry night screensaver, he snapped it shut angrily on his way past. He threw himself heavily in this chair and put his head in his hand.   
Two sets of footsteps came up the stairs  
‘John’ Lestrade said softly gentleness in his voice John wasn’t used to. ‘I’m going to go. Get some rest. I’ll be by tomorrow to...’ he couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.  
‘Ok’ John managed.   
Lestrade turned to go and paused ‘John, I’m sorry’ he said.  
‘Thank you.’ John almost choked on the words.   
Mrs Hudson stifled a sob raising a handkerchief to her mouth as Lestrade left. She sprang into action. ‘Tea dear, I’ll make you tea that’ll help-warm you up and sugar is good for the shock.’  
John let her busy herself with the tea bustling around the kitchen and running downstairs for the ‘good biscuits’ She pottered back with a tray and hovered.  
‘There you go, nice cup of tea and some good biscuits, no the rubbish you-bot-‘she stopped herself and swallowed a sob ‘Oh dear’ she said.  
‘Thank you Mrs Hudson. Much appreciated.’ John said quietly, not able to look at her certain if he did he would lose all vestige of control he was clinging on to.   
‘Alright dear you get some rest’ he sensed her move away but then felt her swoop down upon him in a haze of lavender clinging tightly around his neck and planning a kiss on his head.  
‘You’ll get through this dear. We will’ she said into his hair. John had to grip the arm rests as if his life depended on it and held his breath. She shuffled away hanky to mouth and John exhaled.   
His body was exhausted but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Since returning home sleep had become difficult, that was until his new life began and sleep, total and undisturbed was brought on by either total exhaustion or-no he couldn’t think of that. He delved into his pockets for the pills the hospital had given him. They were strong, stronger than they’d normally prescribe to a patient at home but after spelling out that he was an army doctor with PTSD and possibly just to get rid of him at that point, they’d relented-with just enough to get him through the night. No matter he concluded, he would for the first time in his life abuse his position to get a prescription anything that would allow him to slip into the long painless oblivion of sleep these pills would allow.   
He eased himself painfully to his feet and to the kitchen. Mrs Hudson’s tea and biscuits though well intended would go to waste. He rummaged in the small cupboard behind his chair, well stocked drinks cabinet that was rarely touched save for a celebratory whiskey at Christmas. Again a memory flared he was forced to suppress. He sought out the same bottle, half empty good stuff. He couldn’t bring himself to drink it. Further back there was another bottle, cheap stuff but fairly potent which was the exact quality he was looking for. He poured a glass and downed it in one. The burning sensation a pleasant pain in contrast to the rest that wracked his body and mind making each thought or movement unbearable in a thousand different ways. He poured another and downed it in one, then filling the glass again walked slowly painfully to the living room. He paused at the chair and took another gulp. He looked across at the sofa and shuffled over, he sank heavily onto it.   
He threw the pills into his mouth and chased them with the whiskey, within a few minutes he’d soon feel the affects, he drained the glass and leaned down to the place it on the floor his hand brushed something hard and his blood turned to ice. He let his fingers rest on the hard wood for a moment closing his eyes against everything it conjured. Slowly and gently as if afraid it would shatter or perhaps he would. He reached around and picked up the violin.   
He laid the instrument on his chest like a child or a pet and lay back. Choking back both the urge to be sick and to give into his emotions as a familiar scent wafted up from the cushions of the over used sofa. He pulled the violin closer to him and ran his fingers over the hard cold wood. He found a string and plucked at it sending it vibrating into life. The note rang out into silence.  
‘Sherlock’ John whispered before the drugs took effect and sleep engulfed him.   
John woke the next morning the violin still in his hand his sleep and drug addled brain taking a few moments to register the object in his hands and a few more of blissful ignorance before he registered why. The pain he felt upon the realisation was worse than what he then registered from his ribs and his head. Subconsciously he gripped the violin against the pain.  
‘One generally plays an instrument to alleviate pain John not caresses it John.’  
John sat up sharply at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. He was sitting in the armchair umbrella at side immaculate as usual but with John noted a distinctly weary air there was flatness to his tone beyond his usual clipped measured intonation.   
‘My-I-Jesus’ John stumped.  
‘Come John you had to expect me, the family and the widower need to converse, arrangements to be made.’  
This time John saw the sarcasm hid a raw emotion that was dangerously close to breaking through. John chose to ignore both the barbed comment and what it hid.   
‘Tea?’ he suggested.   
Mycroft nodded curtly then to John’s surprise stood up himself ‘Allow me.’ He said ‘You must still be in a considerable amount of pain.’  
‘That uh thank you.’ John stammered frowning. Mycroft nodded again.  
‘I suggest you take those painkillers.’ He commanded as he moved to the kitchen. John noticed for the first time two pills on the table with a glass of water next to them. He complied with Mycroft’s instructions, moving the violin carefully to his side before taking the pills and sitting back. He rested a palm on the violin and waited.   
Mycroft returned with two mugs of tea, exactly how John liked it. Obviously. He thought with a pang.   
‘Thank you.’ John said as Mycroft returned to his seat and fixed John with a curious stare.  
‘I supposed you already know-‘  
‘Everything.’ Mycroft cut in with a measured tone. ‘Yes. So no need to distress yourself relaying any of the details to me.’ He took a slow sip of tea and fixed John with a stare so familiar it hurt. He’d never noticed the physical similarities between the brother’s before, but well hidden beneath the initially contrasting appearance were features and mannerisms startlingly familiar.   
‘I am truly sorry John. I realise what Sh-what my brother meant to you.’  
‘Do you?’ John asked before he could stop himself. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not-‘he took a steadying breath. ‘I’m sorry too, your brother.’ He paused forcing himself to go on ‘Sherlock.’ He almost choked on the name. ‘He was your brother and I’m sorry.’  
‘Thank you.’ Said Mycroft with the most sincerity and genuine emotion John had ever seen. He cast he gaze downwards avoiding John for the first time.   
‘I used to fear the drugs.’ He continued ‘then the dangerous escapades he got himself into, that he was alone with nobody to stop him. But then, well.’ He looked up again and John saw the tears pricking at the pale eyes that now held more of his brother than John had ever noticed. He felt his grip tighten on the violin steeling himself once again.   
‘I don’t blame you.’ Mycroft continued ‘It seems necessary to say.’ He swallowed ‘Without you... well.’  
‘I did what I could.’ John explained, ‘Yesterday.’ Christ he thought, was it only yesterday? ‘I –‘ he began to explain  
‘Stop.’ Mycroft said, half order half plea, then softer ‘I know John, I know you did.’ He took a careful sip of tea and gathered himself. ‘I must go.’ He declared ‘There will be arrangements...I’ll be in touch.’  
He stood and picked up the umbrella and a package next to it that John had previously not noticed.   
Mycroft handed the small brown package to him.  
‘I received this package six months ago with instructions to give it to you.’ He paused again, ‘On an occasion such as this.’ He placed it on the table next to John’s tea and with a curt nod turned and left.   
Silence descended heavily upon the flat. John could hear Mrs Hudson downstairs clucking over Mycroft and he smiled a little, even the British Government was powerless against his landlady. He listened to their muffled conversations, glad of the distraction from what lay in front of him. Eventually the door banged shut and a car moved away signalling Mycroft’s exit. John held his breath hoping he wouldn’t hear Mrs Hudson’s footsteps on the stairs.  
A phone beeped on the table, not John’s phone which he hadn’t had reason to check with nobody to text him, but a newer model, brand new by the looks of it. He picked it up:  
I told her you were sleeping and not to disturb you until this evening. MH.  
It beeped again  
Your phone was destroyed you needed another. I took the liberty. MH   
And again  
All saved messages were transferred to this one. MH.   
John stared at the phone for a long moment. It started to ring.  
‘Hello?’  
‘As you once suggested this is far easier. Open the package John I suspect it may help, however.’ He paused, audibly taking a breath, ‘Painful it may be.’  
There was a long pause at both ends.   
‘John?’  
‘Thank you Mycroft.’  
‘Take care of yourself John.’  
‘You too.’  
John hung up and stared at the package for long moments before carefully picking it up. He turned it over in his hands several times, examining. It was perfectly rectangular, so whatever was in it was in a box. He gently shook it. Nothing, just a solid weight in his hands. Carefully, as though afraid it might explode he put it down and opened the plain brown packaging, on the underside, just where the paper was taped, across the lines where it met was scrawled a familiar signature. Mycroft proofing no doubt, and no doubt John reasoned failing.   
The paper released revealed a plain wooden box which John carefully lifted the lid from to reveal 12 CD’s, the kind that come blank, each with a number written on the index sleeve. On top was a sealed envelope, expensive stationary he noted with his name on it in the same unmistakable hand that had signed the paper. Sherlock.   
John inhaled sharply, picked up a CD for some clue as to its contents. His first thought was to assume they contained information, data he needed to know something pertaining to the case, to what had happened. Knowing that Mycroft knew exactly what was on the CD’s he was forced to dismiss that thought, not only would he have been more direct he would probably never have given them to him. John knew the only way to find out was to read the letter.  
But that was the one thing he seemed unable to do. Not yet. If these were the last words he would hear from Sherlock Holmes then well, he had to be ready. He knew he would never be ready but now wasn’t right somehow. He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror, ashen and still covered in blood and dirt. He didn’t dare contemplate whose blood was whose.   
The best part of an hour was taken cleaning every part of his body, scrubbing every last trace of the previous night from his body, trying to scrub away who knew what. He dressed again and began to slowly tidy the flat, clearing cups and dishes, gathering stray papers into piles. Carefully he gathered together the artefacts of the case and put them into a box for Lestrade, being careful not to look at them, he knew one day soon he would write up this case, a final case it seemed right to do so and then he’d look and he’d do his best by his friend, as his faithful blogger.   
Mrs Hudson interrupted him with a tray of food and insisted on staying to ensure he ate it. John didn’t mind her chatter and presence distracted him marginally and delayed the inevitable. When she left him alone with a final cup of tea he felt the oppressive silence closing in around him.   
The phone beeped.  
Don’t delay any longer John. Trust me. MH  
John sighed, trusting Mycroft Holmes was the last thing he thought he’d do along with begrudgingly admitting he was right. He returned to the sofa and picked up the envelope. He held it to his nose chasing the faint scent he knew would linger there, a scent he was so finely attuned to he could pick it out in a crowded room.  
‘Who says I didn’t learn anything?’ he asked the air with a sad smile.   
He chased the scent along the envelope and his chest ached with both its familiarity and its absence.  
Carefully oh so carefully he teased open the envelope.   
John  
I hope it is you that reads this and not Mycroft, that is actually I hope you never read these words, but if an instance arises for this box to be opened I may only hope that whatever befalls me (and let it please not be something foolish like a London bus) leaves you untouched. That is my one wish for you John Watson that you go on when I do not.   
The words of emotion have alluded even puzzled me in my lifetime that is why I have chosen this method with which to tell you everything I owe you in death, and that I should have expressed in life. Twelve CDs John for the next year and as many after that as you may stand. The first time I ask you play them in order, a recording for every day of the year, music to tell you everything I cannot. You are clever John Watson, it is my firm belief you will know everything I intend to say better than had I used words.   
Yours, as in life  
Sherlock Holmes  
For a long time John couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. Then very slowly as if being controlled by something or someone else he reached into the box and pulled out disc number one. He made his way across the room to the kitchen where the CD player lived, he opened the lid with a pop and slipped in the plain silver disc closed the lid and pressed play.  
A single note rang out clear and delicate and exquisitely painful, John gulped in a lung full of air just to keep himself upright. As the first note segued into a the next and the next the opening bars spoke to him of sorrow and regret and so much longing he thought it might burst from his chest. He gripped the worktop until his fingers turned white forcing himself to breathe as the piece wove on through a series of delicate notes that begged forgiveness, blended into a dark movement of fear and regret and ended with a sequence of such delicacy and beauty John’s already aching heart was almost broken completely at the beauty. In the strains of the final notes he heard echoes of a lullaby he’d been played many months before when his body was broken by Moriarty. Now his body would mend but his heart would not.  
He pressed stop obedient to his instructions to only listen to one track per day, then his hand returned to the player, he wasn’t after all told he couldn’t listen to the same track again. He hit repeat and let his legs give way under him to the sound of those clear and perfect first notes, as the aching sadness of the first bars played out he let out the breath he was holding since the track ended and with it the tears he’d been holding in since the moment the realisation had hit.  
‘Sherlock is dead.’ He said to himself through the tears, as the words left his lips a deep reverberating note that spoke of the deepest sorrow gave way to the lighter notes of the lullaby. The tears came thicker and faster as John realised for now, for a little while longer he still had a piece of that man, a piece of that life to hold onto. He let himself sob into the music that night in the hope, in the belief that Sherlock had intended he be able to pick himself up the next day and carry on.  
Sherlock as always had been correct, the next day though his chest hurt from crying and a much deeper ache that would never really go away, John Watson got up and though he didn’t begin to live his life again straight away he began to pick his way slowly through knowing that each night there was music waiting for him. He settled into a routine again, his life wasn’t back how could it be when his life had been tied up in the man who was no longer there? But a life of sorts replaced it; he went to the surgery, he saw old army friends, he took tea with Mrs Hudson. He threw himself into writing the blog, using all the notes he’d compiled starting to create a record something of worth to leave behind and something he knew to occupy his mind.   
Every night at exactly 11pm he allowed himself to listen to his day’s track. He sometimes allowed himself to listen to all of the old ones too, when he was feeling particularly alone, reasoning it wasn’t technically breaking the rules. The music kept him company on long nights when the noise of the television wouldn’t calm his mind, the accompanied him while he tapped at his blog and as he did he allowed himself to remember all the quirks of the cases all the brilliant and dangerous moments, and all of Sherlock Holmes. He came alive again on the screen and in John’s mind while his music, and the more he wrote the more of the man came alive in the stories, much more than the few he’d managed to re-create while he was still there. It was as if desperation to leave his record accompanied by the soul of the man himself through the speakers enlivened something. Everything made it into the stories, their lives together between cases the small quirks of his personality from his eating habits to immaculate grooming. And the violin though he never got close to putting into words just what the violin meant, he didn’t want to, that part of their life was just for them. His readers noticed the increased presence of the detective himself in the cases and began to ask him questions, indulging him to flesh out the man further and though John was sure at least one of the questioners was his therapist, who he’d grudgingly returned to and another Lestrade.   
Lestrade’s ongoing friendship had continued professionally with requests to consult on a case just often enough to provide a welcome distraction while Lestrade’s periodic invitations to watch sporting events at the Yard local or a quiet pint in the middle of the week gave John must needed respite, for a while he was the John Watson he was before all of this, before him. But of course he never quite was, sometimes slightly worse for wear from drinking with Lestrade and the team, or meeting an old army buddy he’d stumble home and steel himself for a scolding from Sherlock for his drunkenness. Only when he put the key in the lock would he remember and the silence of Baker Street comes crashing around him.  
It had, on the whole, stopped being painful to get through the day. Most days. He’d stopped missing the man brilliant man who had taken over his life every minute of the day. Mostly. What he’d never done is stopped running over the possibilities in his head, late at night his music playing in the background as he tried in vain to sleep. What might have they done? What might have been said? What might they have been, Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes?  
He looked for answers in the music certain that was what Sherlock wanted him to do. It was a mixture, popular pieces John knew and loved and that Sherlock had played for him often, knowing just that. There were pieces that were clear in their meaning, slow mournful pieces to match John’s blacker moods and jubilant wonderful pieces to accompany his ascent from the black despair or force him upwards. Many he didn’t recognise but assumed they were just outside his limited knowledge. Two right at the end he was certain were Sherlock’s own composition.  
The date had not gone unnoticed, as the weeks kept closer to that date the date when John Watson’s life had changed once again so totally his emotions became heightened, everything he felt was extreme from pain to tiredness even hunger. It was similar to when he first arrived home from the war, those weeks of acute feeling like a wound stripped raw. He feared more the empty blackness that had followed. The music seemed to know, of course Sherlock knew better than he did what he was feeling. Soothing pieces and uplifting symphonies were delivered to John at the end of each day, allowing him to feel but tempering those feelings keeping him just back from the edge.  
The third from last piece was Sherlock’s lullaby, the one he’d played after John was injured at the pool. It soothed him as it did now although he ached with sadness at the note of apology and guilt Sherlock had composed then, even more poignant now. The second to last piece John recognised from that first night, the first time he’d heard the violin. It was as he thought of it Sherlock’s piece the music that leaped about with exuberance of it’s composer it was neither happy nor sad but full of life and intelligence like music John had never heard, it was quite simply him.   
The final piece. The final track of the final CD, a year after John had returned to Baker Street alone he sat there again, much as he had a year before body in one piece mind and heart in shreds. He’d thought he was used to it by now, that he was healing he was after all a soldier he was used to loss he had seen far too much of it for one lifetime. He reasoned at 10.58 pm as he poured himself a drink-the good whiskey this time-that perhaps this had just been one loss too far. Everyone had their limits after all and that was why a year on his hands shook as he unscrewed the lid, why his chest constricted and threatened to cave in as he pressed the play button for one final time.  
The music that filled his ears was beautiful, there was no doubt even in his limited understanding which had grown considerably over the last year, technically brilliant in composition and performed even beyond the daily standard he had come to experience. The piece was slow and quiet, delicate notes picked out and long mournful notes soaring cutting like a knife through his chest. A few bars in and John understood, this was the real letter Sherlock had left him a year on when he knew he could process it. The piece was in part him, part Sherlock and his goodbye, his apology. He could hear him in the music more eloquently than his written words knowing that however he had come to leave John this gift it had been in John’s interest, that is to keep him alive when Sherlock himself would not be. And John felt his sorrow and his apology for that, in the last note hearing his goodbye, yours Sherlock Holmes cut deeper into him than any words ever could.   
It got better after that, slowly. Day by day. The music was still there, every day at first still unable to break the habit. Then later, freed from the rules he’d wait save up the music for a few days waiting until he felt the need or sometimes just to enjoy the luxury of an evening alone with his favourite pieces. He put the CD’s onto his laptop creating playlists of his favourites for certain moods, times of year occasions. He even uploaded a few tracks to his blog, his way of letting the world see just enough of the heart behind the mind of his friend. He came to know them well, all but four pieces; the first he had heard and the last three, Sherlock’s pieces as he called them John continued to reserve for only the very darkest of moments fear that familiarity would rob them of their power. Foolish he chided himself for giving in to such sentimentality a man like him shouldn’t be sentimental, but he reasoned people changed. But the music was always there.   
He carried on as life did around him. John found himself permanently installed in a surgery the work enjoyable if not challenging. He drifted into a couple of pleasant relationships and a few shorter term affairs. He wrote his blog he carried on keeping the world of Sherlock Holmes alive, its popularity astounded him after a year he was getting demands to fill it more regularly, document all the cases. Another year on and he was being asked to write a book, he did so slowly pulling the records from the blog adding to them seeing to do the man and their work justice. It consumed him and the music accompanied him.   
It had been first one year, then two and now three. That night the one constant, the music and the pain he felt as he poured a scotch and listened to the last note ring out still felt like a knife to his chest, he knew now he would wake the next morning exhausted from tears he would no longer allow to fall any other day of the year. The next day as usual he picked himself up dusted off the hangover that now also accompanied that day and made his way to the surgery.  
Nothing else about that third time was usual he had expected to go through the next day, in a daze to come out the other side a little more put back together instead John Watson felt himself once again ripped to pieces by Sherlock Holmes.   
It was beyond what even he had begun to expect in the time they spent together, the pharmaceutical representative ushered into his office late in the morning who had fixed him with an intense stare so familiar it sent a wave of ice running through his brain. Later he realised he’d known but couldn’t believe it, the clever disguise and the weathered aged eyes that betrayed him. When the disguise was lifted and Sherlock revealed himself very much alive the last thing John remembered was a sensation of the air being sucked from his lungs as the world went black.  
When he came to and recovered the power of speech he had shouted, every obscenity he knew and a few he thought he’d forgotten and Sherlock sat and took it those cold eyes locked to John’s taking on every insult and accusation when John finished he stood.  
‘Have you finished?’ he asked barely concealing a clearly painful injury to his ribs, probably broken John reasoned, and cradling a hand wrapped in a bloody bandage which John now noticed for the first time ‘It’s just I’d very much like to go home now.’  
There was such weariness in his voice often so devoid of emotion betrayed something deeper. John shook it off hardened himself still unable to process what was happening and unwilling to give Sherlock more of a reaction than he’d already gotten.   
‘Not until I sort that out.’ He’d conceded gesturing to the hand.   
Now hours later Sherlock was perched in an armchair, elbows on knees hands pressed together boring holes into John’s back with his eyes. John tidied the kitchen putting away the remains of their mostly silent dinner as slowly as he could. Finally he turned and stood in front of Sherlock.  
‘Why?’ he said simply.  
Sherlock lifted his gaze meeting John’s he held him there in silent answer, the one he knew John already knew before speaking.   
‘Protecting you.’   
John held the gaze himself offering his own silent retort before answering himself ‘You were wrong.’  
Sherlock dropped his gaze and inspected the floor intently as John walked away.   
There was silence between them for days, not through John’s anger or Sherlock’s guilt though that was clearly there, but because they seemed to have forgotten how to talk to each other. They passed each other, John on his way to work Sherlock just going to bed or occasionally having just got up. They spoke in the manner of flatmates nothing more, Sherlock was congenial but reserved offering nothing more than his first explanation of his departure asking nothing of John’s life in his absence.   
John lay in bed staring at the ceiling unable to sleep after the fourth day of silence. Silence. It dawned on him, he had done everything to fill the silence left by Sherlock and he had helped him fill that silence and now he had returned and there was a nothing an emptiness. Pausing to consider the implication of what he was about to do John stood and went downstairs.   
Sherlock was lying where he’d left him after dinner, stretched on the sofa book in hand devouring pages at an alarming rate. He didn’t turn when John entered, heading straight for the old sideboard next to the kitchen where all manner of junk lived three years ago, now carefully organised. He went straight to the compartment and took out the battered old case, laying it on top of the cupboard he clicked open the stiff clasps. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on his back and turned holding out the violin.  
Sherlock stood and crossed the room in two easy paces, standing as usual too close to John he took the violin from his hands and spun away. For a moment John expected him to flee to his room but he knew that the gesture was understood when Sherlock began to pluck and tune the instrument. He stood and faced John in the middle of the living room and began to play.  
Sherlock’s eyes were closed but John never looked away, the notes achingly familiar now though only played three times were etched into his consciousness. There was a difference however, played live in the room eked out from that ancient violin by its master and the man who had composed it changed it as only a true musician can. John heard for the first time the acute pain amongst the sorrow and apology, he heard the dilemma and debate of the great mind and the weighing of options. As the last note rang out he heard what he always heard but amplified-regret, sorrow and a pain so deep it once again wrenched his heart.  
Sherlock let the violin drop to his side and opened his eyes, his cheeks were streaked with tears and he stood unmoving as if waiting judgement.   
Words though what had been missing between them ceased to be necessary John crossed the room in short purposeful strides and wrapped his arms around his friend. There was a pause a moment of shock before he felt long arms and the thud of the violin against his back. He paused a moment debating stepping back allowing only the symbolic gesture of the hug to be enough, he leaned back but felt Sherlock’s arms tighten around him and he gripped back. For long moments it seemed they were caught in a tug of war, when each felt the hug should end the other would tighten just a fraction willing it not to be over yet.   
When finally they did pull apart, just far enough for them to separate and look at one another John realised his own cheeks were streaked with damp. He brushed angrily at them with the sleeve of his jumper.   
‘Here’ Sherlock said producing a handkerchief, the same one John had given him at the Opera all that time ago.   
John took it with a smile ‘Said you’d need it again.’ He said ‘You managed to keep it safe all this time?’ he said offering it back.  
‘It was important to me.’ Sherlock said pocketing the handkerchief carefully.   
There was a long moment of silence, no longer uncomfortable. Finally John spoke;  
‘Carry on.’ He said nodding towards the violin.  
Sherlock glanced down uncertain.  
‘Please’ John said settling in his chair.  
Sherlock nodded, picking up the bow and began to play. John smiled and Sherlock returned the gesture before turning t look out onto Baker Street while filling the flat with music.


End file.
